


And in the afterwards...

by amonitrate



Category: Miami Vice (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonitrate/pseuds/amonitrate
Summary: Post-Redemption in Blood fic. There are tests and then there aretests.Sonny and Rico struggle with the aftermath of Sonny's jaunt as Burnett. Slight AU from Season 5; set in the same universe as the Mercy Street series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written in 2007

“What's it gonna be, lieutenant?” Sonny said with more bravado than he felt. Castillo looked up at him with that way he had that told you he wasn't in the mood for bullshit.

After El Gato met his namesake, Sonny had watched Celeste pile her bags into a cab. He hadn't asked where she was going and she hadn't offered. And then he'd headed back to OCB. He'd known they'd all be pissed as hell; but he went anyway. Didn't have a choice, when it came down to it. Had to put himself into Castillo's hands, pushing back panic the whole time. Because everyone – his friends, Rico – they wouldn't stop _staring_.

“I want you over at County. I've spoken to a doctor I know. He'll examine you, do some tests.”

“What kind of tests?” Castillo just turned back to his paperwork. Yeah. Stupid question. Got it.

Rico appeared in the doorway to the lieutenant's office, his face set with a blank wariness that made Sonny's guts twist and his head pound harder. He'd saved Rico's life not three hours ago. It wasn't enough. He knew it wasn't enough but he couldn't help... wishing.

“Castillo said you'd come back.” Out in the caddy, in the passenger seat again, only it didn't feel familiar at all.

“You weren't sure.” Sonny watched the road flash by. Had to close his eyes - the blur was making his stomach churn. What had happened to the Testarossa?

Rico didn't reply, just stared straight ahead. “Sonny...”

“Forget it. I...” By then it was like his brain was pushing against the too-small box of his skull, trying to force its way free, like it would leak out of his eye sockets if it could. “Just forget it. I understand.”

“Man, it's not like that. Don't-”

“ _Dammit_ Rico, I can't -” And then they were stopped at the side of the road and Rico was leaning over him. Not touching, but for the first time there was a hint of concern there. He blinked. “What?”

Rico shook his head. He'd gone dusky, his lips pressed together. “We're almost to the hospital.”

 

“Crockett. Sonny, we're here.” He must have fallen asleep. Rico was standing by the passenger door, holding it open. Sonny shook his head, and _boy_ was that a bad idea.

“Here? I'm... fuck-” And then there must have been something in his expression because Rico was scuttling outta the way. Sonny lurched free of the car. Hands and knees on the pavement of the parking garage and whatever the hell he'd had for lunch nearly ruined Rico's scuffed dress shoes.

“Jesus.” Rico's voice was tinny, like a ringing in his ears. “Jesus, Sonny, just-”

Cheek against gritty chilled concrete. His throat burned.

“Detective, can you open your eyes for me?”

“Rico-” he croaked. When he cracked his eyelids it was like being on an out of control carousel.

A warm hand on his arm. “Sonny, they're gonna take you inside, take a look at you.” Sonny opened his eyes and focused by sheer force of will. Rico was hovering a few feet away. A white clad blur was kneeling in front of him, trying to roll him onto his back. Alejandro bent over him, blew cigar smoke in his face.

“No. No.”

“Sonny, dammit, just let them do their job,” Rico's voice went thin. Then it wavered, and went out altogether.

 

“...delayed reaction.” He tried to roll over, away from the voice, but the pain in his head stopped him. “Ah. Detective? Can you hear me?”

What was with all the stupid questions? Of course he could hear... shit. Where...

He must have spoken aloud. “Dade County Hospital. Can you try and open your eyes for me?”

He did, but it was a near thing. White light blazed through him, straight to his head. When it faded enough for shapes to solidify, the first thing he saw was a thin blue curtain. And for a moment he thought maybe he was in Billy's nursery – his mother had sewn curtains that exact shade of blue for Billy before he was born. Then he blinked again and recognized the familiar bustle of an emergency room. Shit. Hadn't he just been here? He'd... been shot, right? Not that he remembered that last trip to the ER. He'd been too busy bleeding to death. And that had been... months ago.

“Rico?” he managed.

“Your partner is just down the hall in the waiting room.” The voice again. “I need to take a look at you, okay?”

“No. I need to...” What did he need to do? He didn't remember. Tests. Castillo had said something about tests. He opened his eyes again. He was lying on his side on a wide hospital bed. ER. Right. He pulled himself upright. His brain felt like it was sloshing in his head. A tiny brunette in blue scrubs stood next to the bed, a stethoscope around her neck. She looked familiar. Familiar. Did he know her?

“What about Caitie?”

Silence. “I'm sorry, I don't-”

“My wife. Caitie. Jesus...” What had Castillo told Caitlin? Did she think he was dead? “I need to call her. Tell her I'm okay.”

“Why don't we get Detective Tubbs for you, okay?” The doctor nodded to a nurse he hadn't noticed, who vanished through a gap in the curtain. “Do you remember how you got here?”

Stupid questions again. Only... yes. Of course he remembered. Rico had driven him, in the caddy. He nodded. “I'm alright. I don't know what y'all are so worked up about.”

The doctor ( _God, who was she reminding him of?_ ) gave him something between a smirk and a frown. “Your lieutenant made you an appointment with our neurologist but you collapsed in the parking garage, so for now you're my patient.”

Collapsed. Well, shit. He didn't remember _that_.

“Can you tell me how you're feeling?”

 _Like fucking crap_ didn't seem like the polite response, even if it was true.  Before he had a chance to come up with a better answer, the nurse returned, Rico in tow.

“Man, you look terrible,” he said.

“You're just noticing?” Rico glanced at the lady doc. “What's wrong?”

“I-” Sonny's stomach churned at the edge to his partner's voice. The words lodged in his throat. He swallowed. “I was... worried. About Caitie.”

Rico blinked. “Caitie?”

“Jesus, Rico. Yeah. Caitie. My wife.” Now Rico was staring at him. His skin was starting to crawl. “I was hoping you could call her for me. Tell her I'm... you know. Alive.”

And he knew that look – he'd known Rico too long. His partner was going to put a fist through his face. Sonny braced himself, but Rico turned on his heel and walked away.

After that he answered the doc's questions. Let her prod at him, shine lights in his eyes. Because even back in the interrogation room in OCB he hadn't been afraid of Rico. He'd never been afraid of Rico.

So why was he so afraid now?

 

“How did it go?”

He looked up from the old issue of _Time_ he'd been flipping through without seeing to find his partner hovering in the doorway to the private room where they'd stashed him after what had felt like a lifetime's worth of tests. The magazine was three months old and yet there was nothing familiar on the pages. Nothing at all, as if he'd ceased to exist during the time it covered.

“Thought you left.” He was too tired to feel anything one way or the other, about Rico, about what had happened. They still hadn't let him use a phone.

Rico shrugged. “I did.”

There wasn't anything he could say to that. He just wanted Rico to go away so he could sleep. The last nurse had given him something that had dialed the pain back a few notches finally, and they'd drawn the shades. He hadn't had the heart to get up and check to see if the door was locked. The windows certainly didn't open. And they'd been careful not to leave anything useful behind in the room.

“You didn't hear me come in,” Rico said. Like it was an accusation.

Sonny shook his head. “What's the verdict?”

“They haven't told you?”

“Said they want me to stay the night. For observation.” And in the morning? Would they really let him leave?

Where would he go?

“Look, Sonny. About this afternoon.” Rico's hands were in his pockets, ruining the line of his suit.

“Caitlin's dead.”

Rico let out a breath. “Yeah. You didn't remember?”

“You thought I did. That I was-”

“Sonny, I-”

“I don't. Remember. I just... know. Now. I mean, I didn't then. I-” The magazine crumpled in his hand. He smoothed it back flat, but the wrinkles remained. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

Rico ran a hand over his face. The skin around his eyes looked sunken. Like he hadn't bothered with sleep in the months since everything went to hell.

“The neurologist says you have a concussion from the car bomb. And there's... an older injury. They want to do more tests in the morning.”

Acid burned his throat. “So now you believe me.”

“It wasn't about that.”

He looked up and caught Rico's gaze before he could look away. “Wasn't it?”

“Dammit, Sonny, you killed a _cop_.”

_You're good, Crockett, but you're not that good._

_Fuck off_ , he wanted to say. _I don't remember._ And he didn't. But like he knew about Caitlin... he knew about this.

When he didn't respond, Rico broke eye contact and stared at the floor. “I'll come by in the morning.”

“Sure.” The magazine slipped and he watched it flutter to the tile. “Don't forget to report to Castillo.” Probably not the smartest thing he'd ever let fly; but somehow he just didn't care.

“Why do you think I'm here?”

The bitterness in Rico's voice followed him down into sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to oddmonster for an insightful beta and for talking me down from the canon ledge. For hellocleveland, who has waited patiently. This part starts to veer from s5 canon a bit.

The grass was freshly cut, not-yet-withered clippings strewn over the neat edges of the white sidewalk that meandered past the house. The house Caitlin had bought, the house he didn't remember. He hadn’t expected this... this sign of care. Wasn’t sure he’d ever mowed that lawn himself, or if they’d paid a neighbor kid to do it. Didn’t even know if he’d ever _met_ the neighbors.

On the ride over, while Rico navigated the Miami back streets as detached as a taxi-driver, Sonny had tried to hold an image of Caitlin in his mind long enough to spark a memory - any memory - of the home they'd shared. Eating Indian takeout. Waking up entwined under the sheets, her hair tickling his chin. Even watching the damn tv. Nothing had come. He’d tried to blame it on the itchy exhaustion that had settled over him the third time a nurse had poked him awake, around three in the a.m., but even that didn’t stick for long.

Miami passed by in a blur of glassy high rises and shambling bodegas, familiar as the lines on his palms. The city was the only thing left that he knew for certain, ingrained so deep that even when his brain went off on an unannounced furlough, the man who'd taken his place had still managed to navigate its layers of seductive corruption without thought. The doc had said that everyday knowledge - how to tie his shoes, the sound of a .38 cocking in the dark - would have remained undamaged, even as everything personal deserted him. He could guess what Rico thought about _that_ little tidbit.

Sonny was dying to ask after the squad, to find out what had gone down while he was...missing. He must have had a half dozen open case files before the explosion. Had Rico inherited them? Maybe fobbed them off on Stan? Or had they fallen into missing-cop limbo? The words died before they had a chance to form. He'd settled for fiddling with the caddy's radio dial until Rico flashed him one too many silent, expressionless glances. No radio. He got it. So he’d sunk down into the leather passenger seat and ignored Rico right back.

Turned out that worked out just fine for both of them.

At this rate, the next coupla days were gonna be a barrel of laughs. Just after lunch (he’d only managed some orange jello, despite the nurse’s cajoling) Castillo and Rico had shown up at the hospital for a meeting with Dr. Andresson, the neurologist, wearing matching frowns, though Rico’s shaded more towards a scowl by the end of the conversation. Somewhere along the line they all forgot he existed, discussing their options as if he wasn’t in the room. Since no one seemed interested in what he had to say he’d mostly stopped listening.

The doc wanted him looked after. And since there wasn’t anyone else, Rico got volunteered by default. Sonny didn’t bother protesting. Neither did Rico, though his opinion of the matter was plain to anyone who knew him. Guess they were both just too tired to do anything other than go along. Somewhere, down deep, this bothered him more than the headache, the stares, the not-knowing. They shouldn’t be so damn tired.

Rico parked the caddy at the curb and sat staring out at the posh street, blank behind his sunglasses, hands still loose on the wheel. Cucumber cool in his charcoal grey Armani. The neat knot of his tie and the crisp creases in his slacks gave him an impenetrable air, like he was wearing some kind of high-fashion body armor. Sonny tried not to notice how itchy he felt under the hot sun, the grime that the trickle of lukewarm water from the hospital shower that morning hadn’t washed away. Instead he followed his partner's gaze out to the surrounding street.

The neighborhood Caitlin had picked was quiet. Tastefully nondescript - not the digs you'd expect from a star on the rebound. The street was lined with tall, fringe-capped palms, the yards done up just so, as precisely manicured as Burnett's fingernails. Not the kind of place where the residents mowed their own lawns - so at least there was one memory he probably wasn't missing. The house was modern, with geometric lines and big empty windows, and set back from the road for privacy. A chest-high wall embedded with glass bricks shielded the front step, providing an additional buffer from the outside world. It shone bright white in the afternoon glare. Sonny squinted, but the house stayed just a house. Anonymous as the rest of the oversized boxes that had sprung up all over Miami in the past ten years. His stomach clenched and twisted. Maybe that jello hadn't been such a great idea.

"The lawyers give you a hard time?"  
  
Rico turned toward him at the question and at first all Sonny could see was his own doubled image staring back at him from the other man's mirrored lenses. The sight stripped him bare. Left him exposed and floundering before his partner, before a face that after five years should have been as familiar as his own. It made him wish for his own shades - Burnett's hundred-dollar Ray Bans – lost somewhere between the bust and that other white, modern house - the one he'd shared with Celeste. The house he did remember.  
  
"Gimme a hard time about what?" Rico was gonna make him work for it. For everything. He blinked, and the tension in Rico's jaw made Sonny realize he was grinding his own teeth.  
  
"The keys." Sonny shrugged and tore his attention away, out toward the unfamiliar street. Tried to make it look casual. "Castillo said the record execs filed a lawsuit."  
  
Rico pulled a slim keyring out of his pocket. Three or four keys jangled together, dangling from his partner's fingers. Sonny waited for some sign. Was he supposed to take them?  
  
"They didn't change the locks," Rico said.  
  
At what must have been another in a long string of blank looks - an expression with which Sonny's face was becoming revoltingly familiar - Rico closed his hand around the keys. "They're yours. You left them behind when you went under." With that, Rico stuffed the keyring back into his pocket, climbed out of the caddy and shoved the driver's door closed. The car shuddered in protest at the unfamiliar force.  
  
_They're yours. You left them behind_.  
  
Oh.  
  
Rico was already to tile of the front stoop by the time Sonny caught up with him. Sonny's shoulders felt too loose without the second skin of his holster. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the tailored jacket that belonged to the suit he'd worn when the bust went down. The suit he'd been wearing for days, when he hadn't been dolled up in a backless gown. Burnett's suit, all sleek lines and dark, slippery fabric, barely wrinkled despite the beating it had taken. Even the gun Castillo had confiscated from him had been Burnett's - a matte black Glock. Stuck in that sterile, chilly hospital room with nothing to do but search the empty spaces where his memories should have been, Sonny had found himself worrying over what had happened to the Bren-ten. As if one lost gun was the worst of his problems.  
  
Cheery orange and white clusters of lantana stood in trim waist-high shrubs on either side of the doorway, the scent like a pitcher of orange juice left out in the sun too long, thick and sweet. A pair of white butterflies twirled around one another before settling on one of the flowers. Two sets of wings opened and closed, the bodies appearing to widen and narrow in silent rhythm. It was all so... domestic. He had lived here?  
  
Rico pulled out the keychain - Sonny's keychain - and then stopped short. Sonny fell back a step on instinct.  
  
"The door's open." The keys vanished and Rico drew his gun. Sonny couldn't halt an aborted reach for where his own weapon should have hung. And he'd thought he'd felt naked before. _Jeezus_. He craned his neck, careful to stay out of Rico's line of fire, his heart thundering in his ears. The right half of a wood-framed glass double door stood ajar, as if Caitlin had just come back with the groceries, her hands too full to pull the door shut behind her.  
  
"Anybody else have keys?" Sonny backed away another pace, giving Rico plenty of room. Rico didn't bother to answer, but _how should I know - it's your damn house_ was written plainly across the stiff lines of his shoulders. Yeah. Right. His damn house. His keys in Rico's pocket.  
  
His - Burnett's - gun locked in Castillo's desk.  
  
His mind, full of gaps and sticky darkness. Or was that Burnett's too?  
  
Rico followed his gun like a good cop and edged through the door. He didn't tell Sonny to stay put. Still knew him better than that, whatever else had happened. Sonny followed, careful, careful, hanging back, replacing the door in its jamb without a sound. For a few long seconds he saw nothing. He blinked, and an empty foyer came into focus. Festive Spanish tile under his feet. White walls, high white ceiling. Across from the entrance a set of steps led upward to a balcony. A big stucco vase stood guard near the stairwell, a single old-fashioned hook-handled umbrella leaning against the lip.  
  
Rico slipped his sunglasses off with his free hand and stashed them in his jacket pocket. Their heads turned in tandem at a soft sound from the unseen depths of the house. A snick, like a door shutting. Sonny listened hard, filtering out Rico's breathing without thought. Footsteps. Someone in the house. _Someone in the fucking house_. Acid filled his stomach, his head, boiling up, nearly blinding. _An intruder in Caitlin's home._  
  
Had Rico been here before? It would be better if one of them knew the layout. Surely he had... _Caitlin turned to smile at him over her shoulder, her short hair mussed, her skin glowing in firelight. "Don't you move," she said, lilting voice curling with playfulness. She rose to her feet and pulled on the first thing she found - a wrinkled dress shirt, robin's egg blue. His shirt. He reached-_  
  
A hand grasped his wrist - Rico's hand, holding him back, a wordless rebuke in the thin press of his mouth. Rico dropped the contact as soon as Sonny fell into place behind him again. They moved forward through the empty foyer and into an empty living room. Amorphous white-draped furniture stood like solemn sentinels before a blank marble fireplace. Sonny went cold. The fireplace. _Caitlin painted gold by the flames, lips spread, laughing._  
  
Caitlin in lacy white, sheathed in long black gloves from the tips of her fingers to her elbows and-  
  
Running water. Sonny shook his head but the sound remained, coming from just beyond the living room. A faucet. In the kitchen? A hysterical thought broke free, even as he tried to squash it - maybe it was Caitlin, doing the dishes. Had Caitlin washed dishes? Or had they hired someone to take care of things like that?  
  
He hadn't asked how Caitlin had died and no one had volunteered anything. He'd heard the doc tell Rico and Castillo (as they listened, Rico's frown turned dubious, Castillo's considering) that it was better to let him remember things on his own. But every moment was laced with hidden tripwires, and when something came back - like that flash of Caitlin by the fire - it returned fractured and senseless. And every time  he tried to grab hold it dissolved like chalk in his hands. _Flour. Flour on his face_. _His white reflection filling a round mirror, and he was made of moondust-_  
  
Jesus. Get a grip, Sonnyboy.  
  
While he'd been on his little vacation from the here and now Rico had moved down a short hall lined floor to ceiling with windows and turned toward the the next room, his dress shoes nearly soundless on the tile. The running water cut off and Rico ducked through the doorway, gun braced in both hands.  Sonny kept his back to the wall and hurried after. There was a clatter and a gasp from the room beyond, then Rico swore and his arms dropped, the gun dangling at his thigh. Sonny pushed past his partner into - yes - a kitchen. Only it wasn't Caitlin washing up the dishes. It was -  
  
Sonny blinked. "Caroline." _Barely twenty, she grinned up at him from a dog-eared, rain-spotted snapshot, and he held on, held on to her, to the thought of her, while he traced her ponytail with one grubby finger._  
  
His ex-wife stood behind a small island in the center of the kitchen. One hand was still half raised in surprise, the damp rag she held dripping suds onto a counter top littered with cleaning supplies. A clear plastic spray bottle filled with blue liquid, a squat white bottle of bleach, a box of Kleenex. A little orange box of baking soda. Two rolls of paper towels. What looked like the remains of Chinese take-out.  
  
"Sonny," she said, dropping the rag. "God. Sonny." Caroline left the counter behind, started towards him, and then came to a halt, something odd in her expression. Something-  
  
Rico shifted next to him, cleared his throat before he spoke. "Sorry about that, Caroline. I didn't expect-"  
  
"The cleaning woman. Yeah, I got that from the gun." Caroline tucked a flyaway curl behind one ear and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. The movement pulled her water spotted blue tee-shirt tight over her chest and belly and Sonny felt himself staring. Things shifted in his head and then time contracted, because despite four years of divorce and four months out of his mind he still knew her body as his own. And the edges of his vision dissolved into white.  
  
"Sonny?" Caroline's voice and then he heard Rico swear; but Rico was... Rico was...  
  
_he heard Rico descending into the cabin. didn't move. the tumbler was solid and warm in his hand and his head swam to the rhythm of the rocking water. he cradled the glass to his forehead, barely aware of the sharp whiskey fumes. Rico stood there, looking at him. his head was too heavy to lift and even if he could have he wouldn't have because Rico was looking at him and he didn't want to see what Rico carried in his face. in his eyes. the phone rang and_  
  
The backs of his knees hit something hard. Hands on his shoulders shoving him down so he struck out, blind, until his arms were pinned to his sides and the voice in his ear penetrated the white haze. "Dammit, Sonny, goddamn it, just stop-" But even after he quit struggling he couldn't get any air, his lungs working but nothing coming, and the hands forced him forward so that his head was between his knees. A field of plum stripes blurred and solidified. His eyes were open. Inches away from Rico's shirt - Rico was kneeling on the floor, holding him by the shoulders, holding him in place. His fingers found wicker and the cloth of cushions. A chair.  
  
"...released him this afternoon. I was just bringing him by for some clothes." Rico spoke over his shoulder, clipped, like he was pissed. "How'd you get in?"  
  
The butt of a revolver, nestled in the molded leather holster clipped to Rico's belt, was just visible under the spread tails of his jacket. Sonny focused on the gun until his chest eased. "Lemme up."  
  
"Gina called me. I thought... well, the lawyers covered up the furniture, but they just left everything else. It's been months." Steel in Caroline's voice that didn't fit her words. She hadn't answered Rico's question.  
  
"Lemme up, Rico," Sonny managed, pulling against his partner's grip. Rico turned back around and released him, sitting back on his heels as Sonny straightened up in the chair. The room tilted and then swung pendulum-like until it settled back to normal.  
  
Caroline hovered by the kitchen island, still hugging herself, wan against the bright blue tee. The swell of her belly closed Sonny's throat. He swallowed and rubbed his forehead. The skin felt cold and distant against his hands. Rico stood and faced Caroline, a challenge in his stance. What had happened? The silence stretched on and on, so Sonny let out the first question to come to mind.  
  
"When are you due?"  
  
Caroline flinched, like he'd slapped her. Rico just stared at his shoes.  
  
"New Years," she answered, meeting his eyes, her back straight. Which made her... five months along. Give or take. He pushed away from the chair and rose to his feet. His legs had gone numb. He should really... he should get what he'd come for.  
  
"Where's the bedroom?" he asked. The words felt too large for his mouth. They both stared at him. He was getting used to the sensation. Caroline responded first. "Upstairs. Second door on the right."  
  
"Sonny. Sonny, wait-" Rico's voice was edged with strain. Sonny paused just beyond the kitchen, where the hall was flooded with light from the bank of windows, but Rico didn't continue whatever he'd meant to say.  
  
He didn't make it as far as the bedroom. The first doorway he came to turned out to belong to a spacious full bath. He shut the door behind his back and left the light off; but the room remained bright - a frosted skylight over his head diffused the afternoon sun. He ran his hands over gleaming chrome and pale green marble. There was nothing personal here, nothing of Caitlin. Nothing of himself.  
  
The quiet was broken by a raised voice, muffled by the walls. Easy to tune out. Sonny stripped off the suit jacket and let it slip to the floor. Rolled up the sleeves of his crumpled shirt. The slim polished knobs of the faucet turned in his hand without a hint of friction. He opened them fully, until the rush of the water into the shallow bowl of the sink drowned out the voices from the kitchen. Let the lukewarm water run over his hands. Leaned over the marble counter top and scooped up a handful to splash his face. He wanted a shower; but the thought of stripping naked in this place that was supposed to be his home ratcheted up his headache about ten notches.  
  
No towel. Sonny shook the water from his hands, reached for his discarded jacket and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The vague shadow of a body - someone watching him. He whirled to find himself nose to nose with a slump-shouldered man wearing Sonny Burnett's threads and Sonny Crockett's eyes. Water trickled down the other man's face and neck, soaking into the rumpled white collar of his shirt and dotting the loose silk of his tie. _A fist flew towards his face._ He staggered backwards, far enough to take in the framed border of the full length mirror hanging from the back of the bathroom door.  
  
The marble room rang with harsh echoes of his breathing. Shit. _Shit_. His hands were in right balls; when he uncurled his fingers the flesh of both palms was embedded with pale half-moons where the nails had bitten the skin.  
  
He abandoned the jacket and fled to the hallway. "...under investigation, Caroline. IAD wanted him pulled in last night but Castillo put his foot down. If the neurologist hadn't found anything..." Rico and Caroline must have moved back into the open room below the balcony.

Second on the right. Two steps away. The recitation of his impending doom faded behind another closed door.  
  
More white phantoms where furniture should have been. A wide expanse of bed, what could be a double dresser, and a low armchair with ebony feet. The folded rice paper and bamboo ribs of a Japanese lantern perched in a corner of the wood floor. A tower of cardboard boxes was stacked neatly in another corner. Unlabeled. Caitlin's? Or his? And what about the stuff from the St. Vitus?  
  
Sonny sank down onto the bed, the sheet-draped mattress giving under his weight. Looked down at his open palms, watched the marks his fingernails had made fill in and turn pink, until there was nothing left but smooth skin. He searched for Caitlin in the scrawl of black calligraphy covering the brittle paper scroll that hung over the dresser. She'd grown up in Glasgow - why the Japanese theme? He stood up again and pulled the sheet from the bed. Smoothed his fingers over the black lacquer of the headboard.

He waited but nothing more of her came to him.

The dresser held six drawers, stacked in two columns. Sonny let the sheet that had covered it slip to the floor and laid his hands flat on the top surface. A little bowl carved from alabaster held a tangle of loose earrings and thin gold and silver chains. Three glass perfume bottles stood shoulder to shoulder behind the bowl. Which had been her favorite? A brass Zippo marked with a paratrooper's insignia sat near his right hand, the first damn thing he'd recognized as his in the entire place. He flicked it open with practiced ease and sparked a flame. Let it die. The lighter shut with a snap and he slid it into his pocket.  
  
The top drawer on the right side of the dresser held neat piles of men's tee-shirts and underwear. His size. Sonny pulled out two handfuls and dropped them onto the bare mattress. He found a pair of threadbare jeans in the bottom drawer. And all at once he couldn't wait to get to Rico's and a shower - he toed off the dress shoes and stripped off Burnett's black slacks and then pulled on the jeans. The unravelling holes lined up with his knees. He reclaimed the Zippo and yanked himself free of the black and white silk tie. The damp dress shirt went next, replaced with one of the tees from the bed.  
  
Burnett's clothes sat in a pile at his feet, crumpled like a shed skin. The lighter was in his hand again, flame bright and blue-hot at the center. _Don't be an idiot, Sonnyboy_. Right. Setting fire to his clothing wouldn't exactly help him get back into Rico's good graces, now, would it? Besides, arson would just give IAD more proof.  
  
_More proof of what, exactly?_  
  
When had his internal voice started to sound like Cliff King? "Shut the hell up," he muttered, startling himself. He slammed the open drawers closed and turned to the closet, which was larger than Billy's nursery had been, back in that first house with Caroline. Most of it was Caitlin's - sparkling gowns in clear plastic covers, a double arm's span of slim tailored jackets. At the back of the closet stood an open set of shelves, a rainbow of shoes lined up two by two. A wad of dark fabric stuffed into one of the sandals caught his eye. Slippery in his fingers as he pulled it free of the shelf - a single silk glove, long as his forearm, the purple so deep it was nearly black.  
  
_A roar, the sound like some natural force, beating back even the amplifiers nearest where he stood. He stayed at the shadowy edges, careful not to get caught in the beams of light. She was outlined in silver so bright he had to fight not to look away. One of her arms stretched out toward the crowd, the fair skin of her shoulders glowing against the dark silk of the glove that covered her from fingertips to -_  
  
"Sonny?"  
  
_white lace scratchy under his hands_  
  
"Sonny?"  
  
His hand clenched around the silk glove and if he'd had his gun he would have fired without thought, without taking aim. Caroline stood framed by the entrance to the closet, wrapped in a sweater her mother had knitted ten years ago. His back hit the shoe rack and Caroline went still, hands open and loose at her sides. "Hey," she said. Her eyes were too big, but she stood her ground. He tried to swallow. Found he was holding his breath. The tee-shirt stuck to his shoulder blades with cold sweat.  
  
"Yeah," he managed.  
  
"I have to get back. I'm staying with Bob's mother." Bob. He blinked. Nodded like he understood. _Bob's mother_... her new husband.  
  
Right.  
  
She waited a moment, her lips pressed together like she was holding back what she wanted to say. Then she sighed. "Rico has the number."  
  
Just before she slipped out of sight he found his voice. "Caroline."  
  
"Yeah?" She turned and warmth had replaced the wariness in her eyes.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
A rigid pressure he hadn't noticed in his chest released when she was gone. He grabbed a black leather duffel bag from the closet floor and stuffed it with a few linen jackets that were obviously his, then added the underwear and tee shirts he'd left on the bed. Didn't look for toiletries, even though a peek through the room's third door revealed a master bath. He'd ask Rico to stop at a market on the way.  
  
Rico whirled at the sound of his footsteps on the kitchen tile. For a moment his partner's expression twisted with something like confusion; but as soon as Sonny thought to wonder about it Rico closed down tight, and whatever it was he'd seen was shuttered behind a veneer of professionalism.  
  
"Got what you needed?"  
  
Sonny hefted the duffel in answer. Rico nodded and Sonny followed him to the front door. Neither one of them looked back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to oddmonster, who midwifed this baby.

He opens his eyes to a cloudless sky that slips away before he can get a sense of where the hell he is. The sky wavers far overhead, distorted by the water as he's pulled under by the current. Too shocked to stop himself, he gulps for air and gets bitter water instead. He chokes, he kicks, he flails his arms - but waterlogged cloth drags at his limbs and his shoes weigh him down. Down deeper into the ocean, brackish salt water in his mouth, stinging his eyes, and he kicks again, stronger this time. Bright sun and clear air are so close - his fingers break through the surface of the water into free space, but there is nothing to grab hold of, nothing to cling to, and he is submerged again before hope has time to blossom. Then a hand brushes his, two fists twist in the floating silk of his jacket, and he is yanked free of the water. He coughs and sputters, his eyes shut with salt and shock, so it takes him a good long moment to realize his body remains submerged - only his head has been pulled up into the air. When he manages to crack his eyelids into slits the first thing to swim into focus is his partner's face.

Sonny stares down at him, cold and calm and sharp as a tack. The fists loosen, ruined silk slides through open fingers, and he falls.  
  
Ricardo Tubbs opened his eyes to blackness. Gasped for air, his hands flying out to meet tangled sheets, mind stuttering over the shift from wet to dry. Parallel slashes of washed-out blue light scored the wall, curved over the mattress and his legs under the covers. As he watched, still panting with the dream, the stripes changed. They elongated and squeezed together and he finally recognized the pattern of his blinds drifting in the air currents, filtering the light from the courtyard outside his bedroom window.

The light striped his arms as he sat up and shoved the covers aside; but movement in the dark stopped him from rising. He jerked backwards into the headboard as a face emerged into the grid of reflected light by the bed. Nothing changed when he blinked. Sonny loomed at the foot of the mattress, squinting at Rico through long hair that hung into his eyes in damp strands. _What the-_  
  
"Where is he?" Sonny hissed. His shoulders were hunched like he was tensed to spring. Rico shook his head, grasping for words and coming up empty. He slid from beneath the sheets until his feet hit the cool wood of the floor, then stood up into the dark, moving slow. Careful. Barely daring to breathe. _What the hell-_  
  
Sonny shifted in and out of the light. Face unrecognizable, contorted with a confused rage. He raised his arms and his body fell into firing stance.  
  
And there was a gun in his hands.  
  
He'd had this dream before, hadn't he? Over and over in the last four months. Sonny with a gun in the dark.  
  
"Sonny-" Rico's holster, on the nightstand, lay deflated and empty. The clock glowed 3:45. He allowed himself a quick inhalation. Scanned the room from the corners of his eyes, but the only weapon was the revolver in Sonny's hands. Rico's service weapon.  
  
"WHERE IS HE?"  
  
Before he had a chance to form a thought, Sonny rushed him, shoved him up against the wall next to the bed, one arm pinning him by the throat. The gun thrust up under his jaw, chilly against his skin.

"Who, Sonny? I don't know-"

"Hackman." The name choked out in the dark made the hair on Rico's arms stand up. _Jeezus_.

His mouth responded before his brain had time to catch up. "Hackman's dead."  
  
Sonny wavered. His expression smoothed out, softened, went blurry. He backed away from Rico, gun covering him the whole way, training and reflexes intact even while out of his mind. Rico stayed where he was, his back stuck to the wall with fear sweat, and watched his partner vanish through the bedroom door.

  
After he'd collected himself enough to go looking, Rico found Sonny outside in the courtyard.  
  
He just stood there on the far side of the pool, his back to Rico, a grey silhouette that blotted out a patch of shadowed pavement and a pair of empty white chairs where pretty young things between gigs usually lounged under the Miami sun.  Pale shards of blue light glinted off of the broken surface of the water, painting the surrounding walls with streaks of liquid illumination. Rows of windows floated in a field above their heads, curtained and blinded against the impending pool-side drama. Behind each one, civilians slept or partied or did whatever it was that people with jobs that ended at five o’clock did. Five years ago, Rico would have remembered what that was like; then, five years ago his dreams hadn’t been filled with salt water and gunfire.

Sonny's hands dangled at his sides, Rico's revolver a deeper blackness in the half-light. He was too far away to see for sure, but he bet Sonny's finger was still on the trigger.  
  
Rico navigated the edge of the pool, the pavement scraping at his feet like sandpaper, chlorine scouring his nose. As he passed the white plank of the diving board his heart crept up his throat at his partner's stillness. Sonny stared out at the courtyard's arched entryway, at the distant lights of the street beyond. He didn't show any sign that he knew he had company, so Rico left a decent cushion of space between them. Waited, but Sonny just stared and stared, like he expected some sign from the night.  
  
"You know, I've lived in this place four years and I don't remember even once taking the time to dip my toe in that water?"   
  
Sonny started, head coming around with a jerk, fist clenching around the gun. Seawater filled Rico's chest, but somehow he managed to steady the instinct to duck, to dive out of range, to defend himself. When the gun stayed pointed at the pavement he found he could breathe. "It's funny, man. All those years you spent living on that damn boat, and your partner's the driest man in Miami."  
  
It wasn't that dark out here, not really, not with the blue security lights scattered around the courtyard and the clouds overhead glowing with the city's orange haze. Potted palms cast spidery shadows that tangled beneath Sonny's bare feet. Some sunbather had left a pile of fashion mags behind on one of the chairs. The constant coastal breeze ruffled the curled pages and sent blue emanations from the lights on the pool shimmering over the walls. Sonny's tee was spectral in the dimness, and from the closer vantage point Rico could see he wasn't still at all - he was planted to the spot like his feet had taken root in the hard pavement, but the rest of him quivered. His chest fluttered in and out in a quick, jagged rhythm, his nostrils flaring. Eyes wide and unreadable, reflecting nothing back. Nothing familiar there, not even the fuzzy half-recognition he'd shown in the lighthouse.  
  
_Dammit_. Rico scrubbed at his own eyes, wishing he was in his bed. Wishing like hell the lieutenant had offered to take Sonny off his hands. Castillo would have known what to do. Castillo probably could have disarmed the bastard back there in the bedroom, before they reached this point.  
  
Castillo would never have let Sonny get his hands on the gun in the first place.  
  
"Sonny," he said, knowing it came out impatient. Knowing somewhere down deep his partner would hear that edge.  
  
Sonny blinked. He was breathing through his mouth, probably teetering on the near edge of hyperventilation. Maybe he'd pass out and save Rico the trouble. Rico waited, but nothing happened. Just two guys in their boxer shorts, stripped to shirts and skins like they were planning on a pickup game, standing like idiots in the pre-dawn chill that was still warmer than most nights Rico remembered in the Big Apple. "Comeon," he tried, forcing everything but calm out of his voice. "Come back inside."  
  
Sonny shook his head, but it didn't seem like a response to Rico's words. His empty gaze slid down to the gun in his hands, back up to sweep over Rico. Checking for a weapon, like Rico was the one who was the threat. The skin on the back of Rico's neck prickled.  
  
"Whaddyou want?" Sonny rasped. His free hand came up to rub at his temple, but his attention never strayed from Rico's position.  
  
"Sleep, mostly." Rico tried not to tense. Let out a long breath. "It's been in short supply the last few months."  
  
Sonny blinked again. "Sleep." Shook his head. His mouth twisted with a cynicism just this side of familiar. A laugh escaped him, knife-edged with contempt. Rico's hands were in fists and he had to force himself to relax. If he didn't watch it Sonny would drag him down the rabbit hole, down where nothing made sense and everybody was out to get you. "I can't sleep," Sonny finished, a little more himself.  
  
"So you're gonna stay out here all night?"  
  
"Why the hell not?" The gun shifted next to his bare thigh, and yes, his finger was still curled around the trigger.  
  
Rico shrugged. "Whatever, man. But I have to live here, and you're gonna freak out the early birds." It would help if he could tell who he was talking to here. This didn't seem like the stone cold killer who'd shot him in the alley without so much as a blink; but then, it sure as hell wasn't his partner, either. _Maybe your partner's gone, pal. Maybe he's not coming back._ So who did that leave, then? _A stranger, that's who. You gonna trust your back to a stranger?_ He had once before. Five years ago. And it wasn't like he had much of a choice when his gun was eight feet away in another man's hand. _Yeah, that's trust all right._  
  
What the hell. Maybe if he got Sonny talking they could go inside. "What happened back there?"  
  
Sonny swallowed. Turned toward the archway again. If he made a run for it, Rico would have to call it in.  
  
"Hackman." This time the name was empty of hate, empty of anything but the sounds the letters made. "I let him go."  
  
Rico waited. He didn't know just what had happened to Frank Hackman in the end - a body had turned up, yeah, but that didn't mean anything. At least, he hadn't let it mean anything - by the time the lieutenant had heard from the island police, Sonny hadn't been around to ask, and Hackman's fate was the least of their worries.  
  
"I got him off." The words came haltingly, like Sonny was discovering the truth of them as he spoke. "I believed him."  
  
Rico swallowed back his questions, his doubts. Remembered the look on Hackman's face, outside the prison, cutting Sonny's feet out from under him with a smug grin. _Got him off in more ways than one._   "You did what you thought was right."  
  
Sonny laughed again, but now the disgust was aimed at himself. As far from Burnett as Rico could have wished. So why didn't he feel any better?  
  
"What I thought was _right_?" How much had he remembered? _How do you know he really forgot in the first place?_  
  
Rico crossed his arms over his bare chest. "It's old business, man. You gotta let it go."  
  
And par for the course over the last couple days they were the wrong words at the wrong moment. Sonny's face twisted in distrust and he backed off a step, his heels brushing the blue tile that surrounded the pool. "Old business," he echoed, eyes locked back on Rico. "Right."  
  
Rico couldn't meet the intensity of his partner's stare, looking at him like he was the one who'd played Judas. "You'd like that. You want this all to go away, like it never happened. Let it go, huh?" Sonny gestured with the gun, taking in the whole courtyard, the whole city. "It was fucking _yesterday_. It just happened. _Just now_. And you think I should be able to _let it go_?"  
  
_That's rich, coming from the dude who thought he could put everything right by blindsiding his friends. By taking on Cliff King and a passel of lowlife scum on his lonesome. As if any of it could make up for killing a cop. Even a dirty cop._

Rico stood there and took it, throat burning with the words he wouldn't let erupt. Because what he wanted to say wasn't gonna do anyone any good right now, least of all himself. And he wasn't the one waving the fucking gun around. Sonny fell into a fuming silence, doing his best to make Rico burst into flames with his glare. Rico gulped a deep breath, forcing down the last four months. They sat in his belly heavy as a brick.  
  
"Hackman-" Rico tried for neutral and mostly succeeded. "It wasn't your fault."  
  
"Yeah?" Sonny's lips peeled back into something that wasn't a grin, all white teeth in the watery gloom. "Tell that to my wife."  
  
_Shit_. "You remembered what happened to Caitlin?" It escaped him before he had time to consider whether it was the smartest thing to say.  
  
"I know I got Hackman off death row," Sonny ground out, "I know Hackman killed her." It wasn't an answer, not exactly. Rico felt the tightrope he'd been walking the last two days sway. The gun swooped up next to Sonny's ear, and Rico's stomach went to jelly. He was too far away. He was-  
  
" _Goddammit_ ," Sonny clawed at his eyes, the gun forgotten in his hand. Rico balanced on the balls of his feet. Tried to be ready. "I can't stop it. I can't make it stop."  
  
"What happened to Hackman?" He had to know. Had to know whether Sonny knew. _And if he does? What makes you think he'll tell the truth?_  
  
In the moment before all expression slid away the lines of Sonny's face turned inimical. His hands dropped to his sides. Then the gun came up, slow as syrup, until it aimed for Rico's head. A shot Rico knew he could make sleepwalking. So to speak. "How. The hell," Sonny said, each word spat out like it was poison. "Should I know?"  
  
"I dunno, man." Rico watched the gun, wiped every doubt from his mind so that nothing would show on his face, in his voice. "I'm sorry."  
  
Sonny took another step backwards, a bare inch between his feet and the edge of the pool. If Rico went for his knees-  
  
"I don't know what happened to Hackman." The words spilled out, crashing into one another, barely intelligible. "I don't know what happened to Caitlin. I don't know what happened on that goddamned boat. What happened afterwards. _None of it makes any sense_."  
  
The gun never wavered. Sonny had been a sniper in 'Nam. Before Rico had even met the man he'd walked away with more marksmanship commendations than any cop in Dade County. If he took a shot at this range, even while shaking like a junkie, Rico was fucked. _And where do you think the next shot will go?_

Thing of it was, he didn't know anymore.  
  
"All I know is she's dead.” Sonny's eyes were closed. He held the gun out in front of himself like a shield. “And I might as well have pulled the trigger."  
  
_Angelina_. Is this what it had felt like? It seemed like a long time ago.

“Hey.” Rico risked a step forward. The gun wasn't aimed at him anymore, not really. He swallowed. “Comeon, man. Let's get outta here.”

Sonny opened his eyes and met Rico's direct gaze for the first time. Blinked at the gun and dropped his aim back to the pavement. Looked around like he'd woken in an unfamiliar bed - clearly unsure where the hell he was, but careful to hide it. He turned toward the pool and startled to find himself so close to the edge. Shuffled back from the water and shivered.

"Yeah. Okay."

He didn't offer to hand over the gun; but he seemed less likely to blow Rico away, accidentally or otherwise, so Rico let it go.

Sonny hesitated, like he was waiting for Rico to make the first move. Rico shook off the quivery tension left over in his chest from the panic and fury and skirted the pool, retracing his steps back towards his wing of the apartment building. The breeze picked up, driving the pool's clear water into ripples that lapped against the white tile. Beneath the sound of the water, the pad of bare feet told him Sonny followed. When he reached the doorway Rico paused and looked back, past Sonny, out to the blue glow of the courtyard. Next time he slept he knew he'd hear the even percussion of waves hitting the shore. Knew he'd search the tangled debris and bits of wood that washed up on the beach, again and again, until the flesh on his hands wrinkled from the water.

Knew that all the while, he'd be listening for the crack of the gun.


End file.
